“We didn’t leave on the best terms.”
“Right. Apologize.”
Nate grimaced. “I tried. The number’s disconnected. And I can’t exactly phone the palace and ask for her, can I? ‘Hey, this is Nate. Yeah, the porn dude. Is your princess available?’”
Jason wasn’t deterred. “Then DM her. Email her. Something.”
“Her socials are run by some PR robot,” Nate muttered. “I did find an email and sent a message. Got a reply that could’ve frozen over hell.” He mimicked an icy German accent. “We’ve never heard of you. Don’t contact us again. And if Allegra’s name ever leaves your lips, our lawyers will make you wish you hadn’t been born.”
“Yikes. So that’s it?”
Nate nodded. “Yeah. That’s it.” He rubbed his temples, an ache throbbing behind his eyes. “I think I need to do something, you know? Distract myself.”
Jason leaned forward. “Well, maybe this isn’t the time, but that offer to join me? It still stands.”
Nate managed a tired smile. “Thanks, Jason. I’ll think about it.”
***
Three weeks later, Nate had learned two things.
One: His brother’s company ran on a holy trinity of cold brew, wages that made volunteering look lucrative, and the unshakable conviction that no one—investors, engineers, not even God—actually understood what the hell they were building. But someday, poof, the world would wake up, realize they’d been missing this thing they didn’t know they needed, and everyone would be rolling in cash.
Two: No matter how many hours he spent glaring atA Beginner’s Guide to Distributed Systems Architecture, a title that could double as a sleep aid, his brain still refused to care.
He slumped on his couch anyway, the book open on his chest, one sock on and one sock missing, staring at a paragraph he’d already read four times. Something about fault tolerance. Or containers. Or fault-tolerant containers. At this point, it could have been a sourdough recipe and he wouldn’t have noticed.
The apartment was quiet, the only sound the steady hum of the AC recycling air that still carried a whiff of last night’s Thai curry.
Across from him, the shelving unit had been rearranged with almost aggressive intent. Where polished adult industry awards had once stood, textbooks now teetered in sideways stacks. A couple of childhood photos had been exhumed from whatever box they’d been buried in: gap-toothed Nate and his brothers,grinning like idiots in a time before adulting was a verb. And, because apparently he was that guy now, a cheap stress ball stamped with the TriaPulse logo sat front and center, looking thoroughly defeated.
Rebranding: personal edition.
In the corner, a half-built side table leaned lopsidedly against the wall, sandpaper scattered around it. Nate had started with enthusiasm—maybe even hope—but that had died fast, leaving a monument to unfinished intentions.
He eyed the table for a moment as if he might actually pick up a piece of wood and try to fix it. But the thought fizzled almost immediately. He was this close to just chucking the text book across the room, ordering another round of takeout, and binge-watching that reality show where people compete to build tiny houses out of cardboard when his phone buzzed.
In the corner, a half-built side table leaned lopsidedly against the wall, sandpaper scattered around it. Nate had clearly started with enthusiasm—maybe even hope—but that had died fast, leaving a monument to unfinished intentions.
He was this close to chucking the book across the room, ordering another round of takeout, and binge-watching that reality show where people compete to build tiny houses out of cardboard when his phone buzzed.
Nate frowned.
Blocked Caller ID.
Absolutely not, shouted every survival instinct he possessed. Blocked numbers were from telemarketers, wannabe producers, and industry hangers-on who thought “former” meant negotiable. The phone buzzed again.
He sighed, thumb hovering. “I hate you,” he told it and answered.
“Hello?”
“Hello,” said a woman’s voice, thick with a German accent that swallowed the H. “Is this Nate?”
Nate’s spine went ramrod straight. The book slid off his chest and hit the floor with athwack.
“Uh,” he said. “Depends. Who’s this?”
“Clara.”
